The Perfect Neighbor Read Online Free

friends and neighbors would try to talk her out of it—even as she dragged them into her schemes.
    And before it was over Mr. Mysterious would—
    She pulled up short as he walked into a small, dingy club called Delta’s.
    Finally, she thought, and skimmed back her hair. Now all she had to do was slip inside, find a dark corner and see what happened next.

Chapter 2
    The place smelled of whiskey and smoke. Not really offensive, Cybil thought. More … atmospheric. It was dimly lit, with a pale-blue light illuminating a stingy stage. Round tables hardly bigger than pie plates were crammed together, and though most of them were occupied, the noise level was muted.
    She decided people talked in whispers in such places, planning liaisons, affairs, or enjoying those already made.
    At a thick wooden bar on the side wall, patrons loitered on stools and huddled over their drinks as if protecting the contents from invaders.
    It was, she decided, the kind of club that belonged in a black-and-white movie from the forties. The kind where the heroine wore long, slinky dresses, dark-red lipstick with a sweep of her platinum hair falling sulkily over her left eye as she stood on the stage under a single key light, torching her way through songs about the men who’d done her wrong.
    And while she did, the man who wanted her, and had done her wrong, brooded into his whiskey with his world-weary eyes shadowed by the brim of his fedora.
    In other words, she thought with a smile, it was perfect.
    Hoping to go unnoticed, she scooted along the rear wall and found a table and, sitting, watched him through a haze of smoke and whiskey fumes.
    He wore black. Jeans with a T-shirt tucked into the waistband. He’d already taken off the leather jacket he’d put on against the evening chill. The woman he was speaking with was gorgeous, black and outfitted in a hot red jumpsuit that hugged every curvaceous inch. She had to be six feet tall, Cybil mused, and when she threw back her beautiful head and laughed, the full, rich sound rocked through the room.
    For the first time Cybil saw him smile. No, not just smile, she thought, transfixed by the lightning transformation of that stern and handsome face. That hot punch of grin, the hammer-blow power of it, couldn’t be called anything as tame as a smile.
    It was full of fun and affection and sly humor. It made her rest her chin on her fisted hands and grin in response.
    She imagined he and the beautiful Amazon were lovers, was certain of it when the woman grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him lavishly. Of course, Cybil thought, a man like that—with all those secrets and heartaches—would have an exotic lover, and they would meet in a dim, smoky bar where the music was dreamy and sad.
    Finding it wonderfully romantic, she sighed.
    * * *
    Onstage, Delta gave Preston’s cheeks an affectionate pinch. “So now you got women following you, sugar lips?”
    “She’s a lunatic.”
    “You want me to bounce her out?”
    “No.” He didn’t glance back but could feel those big green eyes on him. “I’m pretty sure she’s a harmless lunatic.”
    Delta’s tawny eyes glittered with amusement. “Then I’ll just check her out. Woman starts stalking my sugar lips, I gotta see what’s she made of, right, André?”
    The skinny black man at the piano stopped noodling keys long enough to smile up at her out of a face as battered and worn as the old spinet he played. “That you do, Delta. Don’t hurt her, now—she’s just a little thing. You ready to blow?” he asked Preston.
    “You start. I’ll catch up.”
    As Delta glided offstage, André’s long, narrow fingers began to make magic. Preston let the mood of it slide into him; then, closing his eyes, let the music come.
    It took him away. It cleared his head of the words and the people and the scenes that often crowded his head. When he played like this, there was nothing but the music, and the aching pleasure of making it.
    He’d once told